No Appointment Needed
by Val-Creative
Summary: Eleven just needs a good distraction to think out loud. That nice, comfy sofa in Sigmund Freud's apartment will do. /Between 'Cold Blood' and 'Vincent and the Doctor'.


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A cushioned-out sound of a _CLING_, followed by a metallic _CLANG_ high above.

The number of yellow-white bulbs jutting out from the TARDIS' console system blink rapidly, growing brighter with each sporadic flux as they rocket into deep space.

And yet his usually energetic companion insists on _missing_ all of this. For _sleep_!

How mundane, and how incredibly… human.

The Doctor goes through a mental catalogue of all destinations he could pop into to occupy himself, to be thoroughly entertained for a short time — while somewhere immersed in his spaceship, Amy curls herself tightly on unfamiliar, cotton-stitched sheets and frowns placidly to herself.

Gallivanting through the tranquil cluster of Halcya; taking the delightful opportunity to re-re-re-revisit Barcelona (the brilliant, little, oval planet drifting slowly outside a barren, double asteroid ring — _of course not_ Catalonia, Spain); charting a quick temporal-jump ahead for trillions of years to witness a glorious, auroral nova of solar sun; maybe even sharing a cuppa with Amelia Earhart through a century-old winter on Umbeka…

_Amelia_…

His eyes close. Silurians. Restac. The time field, creeping like tendrils over Rory's sneakers, consuming him. _Erasing_ him forever from Amy's memory.

Not running… never, ever running.

His fingers glide over one of the cold taps on the helm panel, flipping up a switch and holding down a large, green button.

He knows very well where he wants to go.

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As circumstances would have it, the Doctor's record for intended and _exact_ adventures into the time stream is… a bit spotty.

He didn't mind the late 19th century, very late by the looks of it — perhaps two more years until the crest of 1900 — and in the far east of Austria. He bounds out, clasping onto the side-railing on the TARDIS' exit, kicking his legs out in front of him. Barcelona would be there at a later date, he supposes. Right now, urgent matters. Very urgent.

More importantly… there's a _comfy sofa_ just waiting for him.

The Doctor grins down excitably at the bearded fellow, pencil pad in hand, his great, white eyebrows furrowing. "Siggy!" he exclaims, "What. is. up. my. _homie_?" Each word punctuated by an irregularly twisty or clapping motion shared between the Doctor's gangly, fluttering hands and Sigmund Freud's uncertain ones.

"Thought I'd pop by. No appointment needed; I won't be long — _oh dear_," the Doctor's breath hitches in, letting out a soft, content exhale as he sinks down into the luxuriously adorned chaise lounge. "Mm, this is lovely, I must say."

"Did Jens send you?"

"No. Yes. _No_." The Doctor cocks his head resting on the flat, Iranian-rug end of the sofa. "…Is he the one with the sideburns?"

Freud clears his throat, tapping his pencil. "And what would you like to discuss today, —?"

"Doctor. Call me the Doctor. And _how_ is this possible?" The Doctor almost has the half-formed suspicion that Leecharian may have previously been in possession of this famous piece of furniture and he'll die a very passive but _happy_ death. Scan for alien tech. He doesn't even want to reach into his coat pocket.

"Does something trouble your day-to-day life, Doctor?"

The words seem to issue so easily from him. "The crack," he says, eyes wandering to the dark of the apartment's ceiling. "Amy's crack."

An audible scribble.

"Hers, specifically?" Freud asks, already mentally cataloging this discussion as _psychosexual_.

"It all started with… her. Little Amelia Pond. Fish fingers and custard. The skirt was—" The Doctor makes a slight face at the memory of the form-fitting, police woman uniform.

"And you are fascinated by… her crack?"

"My little Amelia all grown-up and ready to take on the universe." Obvious dashes of admiration. The Doctor can feel a channel opening in him just by voicing his concern. Some less obvious, pertaining to fear. "The crack in her bedroom. Byzantium. Center of the earth. Always there." His mouth bunches. "Tried to figure it out. Tried to… see what was inside."

"When she was young, you wished to explore… her crack?"

The Doctor lifts his boots from their position settled on the chenille head-pillow. "Is there an echo in _here_?" he says, indignantly. His limbs begin to work with less laden to them and he plucks out a cherry red yo-yo from a spare pocket, wrapping his fingers expertly over the string.

Freud scribbles on his pad, again. His weathered, squarish features unmoved towards any specific emotion.

"Did you find anything of importance?" he asks, droning. "Or do you desire to, unconsciously? Do you feel anxiety or guilt?"

"Not sure. Forced my hand in. Loads of burning."

The lead point of the pencil scrapes a bit noisier on the next column, at the Doctor's extended nonchalance, as he loops around the bright, plastic toy. Stormy eyes following its haphazard patterns. Routing them. Memorizing them. Freud subtly raises his eyebrows. "How did she react to your hand in her crack, as you mention it?"

"…Frightened." More of a whisper. "Understandably, yes. Lost a good friend that day. She needs a holiday, something to—"

The Doctor snaps out of his apprehensive trance, craning his neck to stare up at one of the framed oil paintings on the wall above.

"Is that a _real_ Van Gogh?" he points out.

"A gift," Freud tsks. "Well, if I needed to base my findings on an analysis; my one for _you_, Doctor, is—"

"—_yes_, I agree," the Doctor says, interrupting him mid-sentence, sitting up and reaching out to cover his palm over Freud's mouth opening to a shocked 'o'. "Shhh. _Shhhh_. Yes, I know exactly where I'll take her." He rubs his hands over the sofa. "Musée d'Orsay, Paris. That'll be a _treat_. World renowned painter and all."

The Doctor surges onto his feet, the rhapsodical force he is, leaning over to air-kiss both of the balding man's cheeks. "We'll have to do this another time, Siggy. Ta-ta! So long!"

"Oh, and, cut down the smoking." He turns back to genuinely scold Freud, poking a foot into the TARDIS. "And morphine doses, if you can manage it."

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_One of the best things about writing DW fic? The endless hours of research about the universe and historical figures. I believe (and inform me if I'm wrong) the only thing I made up was the "Leecharian" mention, which I imagine would be an alien race that just opened up like... an space IKEA, or something, and absorbs someone's life source through contact-to-contact. The longer you touch the furniture, the better it works. Yeah... I just made that up. I'm hilarious. Anyway. THANK YOU FOR READING~~  
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_Prompt:_

_"In The Curse of The Black Spot, Eleven mentions having been on Freud's couch._

_So why did he go to see him? Well whatever the reason, Freud gets the completely wrong end of the stick when the Doctor tells him about seeing Amy's crack in odd places, throughout time and space..._

_A lolzy double entendre conversation between the Doctor and Freud, about Amy's crack, please."_


End file.
